


yes, this fear's got a hold on me

by Anemoi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 09:03:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4515945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the perils of a five day affair with your best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	yes, this fear's got a hold on me

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. because "David would stay when Victoria was away, and he'd make food for me all the time. Stir-fries with noodles and vegetables and pasta dishes with sauces – a lot of pasta." and  
> 2\. the way David says "Old married couple" in this [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=72aHqkhPu0U)
> 
> (sorry mom, dad, carra. thanks to my friends for not kicking me off a cliff when i said i wanted to write beville.)

 

 

“Becks.” He extracts his arm out of the tangled sheets and flops it around on the bed till his hand hits something warm.

   “Ow.” David says, muffled in to the pillow. “Stop it.” 

  “Becks. Fuck off back to your own bed.” 

   Silence. No movement. Gary’s slowly sliding back towards sleep, though he tries to fight against it. The bed’s more than big enough for the both of them, but he still felt like there was something- whatever it was he couldn’t pin his finger on, but it seemed important that David went back to his own bed.

   “Becks.” 

  “Mm. Gary.” David says, and he’s far enough on the other end to not be touching Gary at all, except when Gary gives up and rolls over with his back to David, the weight of the mattress feels different under his body.  

 

-

 

  _It’s cold._ That’s the only excuse David gives when Gary glares at him half-heartedly over the cereal. Gary knew better than to pursue it further, that it was just another thing to be accepted, just like he didn’t ask why every time Victoria was out of town David would show up with four bags of groceries and a week’s change of clothes. 

  There was no use talking, anyway. When Gary wakes up again David’s side of the bed was cool, and he yawns his way to the kitchen to find David already bustling by the stove. Gary leans across his shoulder to look at the pan- its pancakes. David smirks a little, and Gary shrugs, reaching past him for the Weetabix in the cupboard. 

  “It’s good.” Gary says to the pancakes, feeling like he should probably say something to encourage the steady stream of food. David accepts it happily, not quite smiling. 

 

 

-

 

  “Gary.” David says, shoves his shoulder. Gary raises his head blearily. It was still full dark, and the alarm clock on the side table said 4 am in accusing red letters. 

   “What the fuck.” Gary says, eloquently, and mashes his head back in to the pillow. 

    He couldn’t go back to sleep. In fact he’s hyper awake from being woken up so abruptly and he’s aware of every dip in the mattress as David sat on the edge, motionless. David sighs in the dark, huddles in to himself like he’s cold. The pale light from the lamps outside waver on his body, thrown in to shade. 

    “Fuck.” Gary raises a corner of the duvet. “Come on.” 

    David slides in, mumbling something gratefully. This time he’s flat in the middle of the bed when Gary wakes up in the morning, their hips brushing and shoulders pushing against each other. Gary doesn’t mention it at breakfast. 

 

-

 

   The house was too big even for the two of them. Gary kicks a football down the stairs and sits on the top step, listening to it bounce all the way down and waiting for David’s answering shout, and then the familiar rhythmic sounds of David doing keepy uppys. Once they kick it in to the kitchen and break a bunch of plates David had stacked on the drawer. Their laughter echoes so much it fills up the whole house, David flicking his hair back and smiling, smiling more than he had been for weeks, maybe months. 

  The fourth night and David’s making pasta again. The first time it happens Gary hung around, waiting to help, but David just rolls his eyes and ignores him. So Gary doesn’t bother offering anymore. Instead he sits by the dining room table, or leans against the kitchen island, watching David bustle in the kitchen, fussily arranging everything just right. David’s hands steady on the knife, the zucchini and asparagus and onions coming out in perfect even shapes.

   He washes the dishes after, when David’s still eating. The domesticity should be jarring, but it isn’t. Instead he finds himself wondering if Victoria cooked at home, or if David did that too, or if they cooked together, a perfect efficient duo exchanging kisses between stirring the pot and slicing the tomatoes.

   Gary just does the dishes. It was simpler. Rinse under the tap, sponge it, rinse it again, set it on the drying rack. Straightforward. 

   “Here.” David says, and puts his plate in the sink. He hovers, for a bit, so Gary raises his eyebrows at him.

   “Jaffa cakes in the drawer.” He says.

   David shrugs. “Don’t feel like it.”

   Gary snorts. They sprawl on the couches after, Gary watching David more than he watched the telly. It was some stupid reality show, but it made David laugh, bright grin in the dim blue light. He falls asleep, and wakes up to David’s laughing.

   “Sorry.” David says, looking apologetic. His mouth still curved at the edges. Gary shakes his head and stands up. “Going to bed.”

“Old man.” David laughs, so Gary chucks a pillow at his head.

“Fuck off.” He throws over his shoulder, “You should sleep too, yeah, you were half awake at training today.”

David doesn’t say anything, and in the television the audience claps and laughs, genuine laughter on a recorded track.

 

-

 

He half expected it, David’s whisper in the middle of the night, “Gary.”, and grunts, rolling over to one side to make room for him.

   He’s about to drift off again, but then he feels David’s hand, hesitant, on his back.

   He turns around, props himself up on his elbows.

   “Becks?” He says, alarmed by the uncertainty in his own voice.

   Instead of answering David crowds close, leans up to kiss him. The angle is awkward; their mouths don’t fit right. David’s is hot and open, almost desperate. Gary’s arms give out and his back hits the mattress.

   “Becks.” He says again.

   “Gary.” David says back, solemn voiced, sweet. The way David said his name made his chest ache, made his throat close up and his hands shake.  

“Gary?” This time a question. It feels like a splinter in the soft fleshy part of his finger. David pushes a hand up under his shirt, palm hot on his skin. Gary braces his hands on David’s shoulders, and David tugs down his boxers. David’s nose is pressed against the crook of his thigh, mouth open.

   “Becks.” When he finds his voice again David’s mouth is wrapped around his cock and the only sound now is Gary saying his name out loud, over and over, until the word stops having any meaning. It stutters to broken syllables. He wonders how in the hell he was going to be able to say David’s name the next morning, until David pulls off and says, “Gary.” As if in answer, and he sounds wrecked, his voice hoarse, and Gary stops wondering anything at all.

 

-

 

   He steels himself for breakfast to be awkward the next morning, but it wasn’t. David’s still buried under the sheets when he leaves the bed and pads quietly to the kitchen. He pours himself a glass of orange juice and grabs the Weetabix.

   David shows up half an hour later, yawning, hair sticking up on the sides, shirt rumpled.

   “Should have slept early.” Gary says, glancing up from the newspaper.

David makes a disgruntled noise, and drops down in the seat across from him.

“Pass the fucking cereal.” He says, and Gary smiles despite himself.

 

-

 

It’s more worrying that they seemed to just carry on normally, that David doesn’t look at him more than usual during training, that they jostle each other on the pitch and exchange manly hand clasps and sit beside each other with enough space left between their shoulders and knees.

   After practice Gary drops David off at Trafford center and goes home, waits for David to come back with more bags of groceries. It’s pasta again, but knowing David it tasted different, with some sauce that Gary can’t even pronounce when he holds it up, squinting at the label.

   David laughs at him, holds out the spoon. “Try this.”

Gary does, licking his lips. “Not enough salt, I think.”

“Picky wanker.” David mumbles, hiding a smile as Gary swats him on the shoulder.

 

 

   “I’ll just leave the rest in the fridge, yeah? Should be good for a couple days.” David says, after. Gary looks up at him.

   “Yeah. Thanks. Won’t have to cook for a bit longer then.”

   David swallows. “Yeah.”

   “When’s Victoria getting back?”

“Tomorrow. Have to pick her up at 5 am, actually.”

“Alright.” Gary says. David’s face is carefully blank. Gary’s hands don’t shake when he sets down his knife beside the plate.

 

They’ve never been able to talk about anything that mattered. So it was strange, how Gary finds himself saying things in bed, fumbling with the lights off. It’s messy, because he only had a vague idea of what to do, and David’s not much help.

   David makes a noise, with two fingers in him, and Gary laughs a little helplessly, all of a sudden aware that it’s David, here, his best friend, _Becks._

“Gary.” David pants, bites Gary’s wrist.

   “Alright. Okay. Jesus, you’re impatient.” He’s just spewing words out, not listening to himself. David shivers, tightens, stills under him and doesn’t say a word while Gary fucks him.

   He tries not to say it or even think it. But it was hard, with all of David laid out like this, gasping out every breath like he’d been running hard every time Gary touches him.

   “It’s alright, Becks, come on.” Not what he meant to say. Not this, either, ‘Fuck, yes, so pretty, come on-’

   He keeps wanting to say something, and it bothers him, how the right words don’t come out. David curls away from him after, back pressed to Gary’s side.

 

-

 

He wakes up in the middle of the night, cold even though the sheets were tucked up around him. He goes downstairs, and David’s standing at the huge stove top, the flames turned down low, glowing cherry red. It’s dark elsewhere in the kitchen. 

  “Becks?” He says, voice hoarse from sleep. “The fuck are you doing?’

  “Can’t sleep.” David says, doesn’t turn around. Gary goes to stand beside him. He leans against the counter, warmth on his back. David’s humming something, stirring the pot. It looks like tomato soup.  

   “Hey.” David says, softly. Gary turns to him, away from the dark kitchen, moonlight reflected on silver bits of the sink. 

   “Yeah?” He doesn’t get to add anything to that because David drops the spoon on the stove and leans in to kiss him. David’s stubble, his warm, open mouth, heat from the stove he can still feel against his arm. David’s hair flops in to Gary’s eyes and he brushes them away. It feels like a dream.

  David pulls back and stares. 

  “Becks.” Gary says, stops. Then, “It’s burning.” 

  “No it’s not.” David says, turning back to the soup. “It’s just fine. Want some?” 

  “Okay.” Gary says, and leans against David, suddenly feeling tired enough to sleep like this, standing beside him. 

 

-

 

Gary wakes up again when David’s leaving, so he stands around waiting for David to shove his clothes in to a bag, and hands him a pack of Jaffa cakes to eat on the way to the airport. Then it’s time for David to go.

   It was always David trying to make the first move, however it was. Gary just waits, waits for David to reach over, for David to show up, for David to bring the plate of pasta to him, for David to realize he's just Gary Neville with the narrow nose and bad haircut. 

   David's standing on the doorstep, hesitating. 

  'Becks.' Gary says, walks the two steps necessary to get to him. 

  He pulls David's head down, not bothering to be gentle. He catches David by surprise, but David's lips open for him, sweet as anything. They break apart, but David doesn’t pull away, keeping his head bowed beside Gary’s, his lips brushing the side of Gary neck. He thinks David was going to say something, but in the end all David did was exhale, very softly, and then he turned and left.  

 

-

 

 

David looks no worse for the wear at training, not even sporting dark circles under his eyes. In fact he seems hyped up, bouncing around. Scholes swats him and says, 'What's gotten in to you?' 

   'Victoria's back.' Gary says, rolls his eyes at Paul.

   David shrugs but he's smiling. Gary can’t tell his expression at all. 

 

   So it goes. Victoria's back for a month before going to New York for another promotional event. David will show up on his doorstep, then, David with his smile and his bags of groceries. Meanwhile Gary will make do with leftovers, take outs, whatever quick easy fix he can make himself.

    Gary looks at him dribbling a ball, playing with it like a kid or a kitten batting a ball of yarn. David's deadly quick feet, the way he looks utterly focused, biting the inside of his mouth. That fierce, uncontained joy in the way he moves, catching the sun in his hair. Gary looks at him, feels something bright and hard and sharp slide in to his chest. 

    'Gary!' David calls, waving.

    And Gary goes over, not knowing what else there was to do. 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading <3


End file.
